


Neither fish nor fowl

by adelagia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelagia/pseuds/adelagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trusses of flowers, personalised letters and whole roast chicken had always been sure-fire ways to win a person's heart, at least in Arthur's experience. Merlin's heart, however, was an entirely different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither fish nor fowl

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the_muppet and accordingtomel for inspiring the fic and betaing, respectively, and for laughing in all the right places. ♥ Originally posted on LJ in 2010.

Arthur wasn't sure what it was about a man's impending nuptials that invited such an assault of unsolicited advice. To ward it off, he'd employed his best gimlet stare, which on any other, ordinary occasion would have put an advancing army off with its tail between its legs; had encouraged among his esteemed guests suicidal amounts of alcohol so they'd lull away into drunken stupors and stop talking at him in great detail about what to do when he arrived in the bridal chambers on the wedding night; had pleaded with Merlin to please, please, for the love of all things good and holy, turn them all into wart-infested toads. 

Of course, Merlin had been uppity and moral about it, the free flow of wine only served to loosen the guests' tongues further and, with their judgment and vision significantly impaired, not one correctly read Arthur's ill-concealed disdain as intended. And so the advice went on. 

"When a bird and a bee love each other very much," said Lord Albin, who was a doddering old fool. 

"Lie back and think of Cumbria, that's what I always tell the little woman," said King Reynard, who was deeply of a porcine persuasion. 

"Here," said Sir Godfrey, who was the worst of the lot, "I shall draw some diagrams for you. You there, fetch me a quill, boy."

And Merlin, Court Sorcerer, who was probably enjoying himself too much at Arthur's expense to be bothered about being addressed as 'you there', fetched. 

Arthur saved his deepest scowl for him. Everything was Merlin's fault, down to the last, wildly unnecessary pictogram. If he wasn't so stupid, he'd realise Arthur had been in love with him for years, and would then follow up that realisation with reciprocation. Unfortunately, Merlin _was_ that stupid, and smiled and nodded a lot at Arthur's subtle advances and then said deflating things like, _Hadn't you better put a shirt on, sire? Bit nippy today_. 

Thus rebuffed, Arthur had given up and succumbed to the traditionalists at court who yammered at him all the time about taking a wife. They'd taken to inviting practically every courtier of marriageable age to Camelot in the hopes of enticing him, each lovely lady bringing with her quite possibly her own personal collection of opportune brambles over which to trip and thus fall into his arms and bounce some cleavage in his face. 

It had come as no surprise to Arthur that he wasn't going to find the love of his life in this manner (and in any case, the love of his life already lived in Camelot and insisted on not being seduced), so he'd done the next best thing, and asked one of his dearest friends if she wouldn't mind being Queen. 

Upon receiving the news, Merlin had smiled the smile of a maniac, and had said it was _fantastic_ and he'd always known that Arthur and Gwen would make an excellent match, and Arthur had tried very hard not to kick him in the shins. 

In fact, he and Gwen made a fantastically bad match. They'd endured a whirlwind courtship in the early days of their acquaintance (which was to say, the point in time when Arthur had not yet cultivated weary immunity to pretty women in well-fitted bodices falling on top of him, and Gwen had conceded that perhaps Arthur wasn't just a spoilt little pig dressed up in fine clothing). It had been a poorly conceived scheme from the get-go, what with them both being young and uncertain and foolish, and it had upended both their lives and scattered their good senses to the far corners. Once the flowers had shrivelled and the poetry run dry, however, they'd come to the mutual agreement that the whole thing was all a bit of a blunder. The upshot of being very much not in love with one another was that they'd discovered they made great friends. 

They weren't _settling_ for each other, precisely, him and Gwen. They were merely making the best out of the situation, the situation being him in love with Merlin and she with Lancelot, who might as well have coined the meaning of upstanding, apart from a habit of absenteeism due to being an overachiever in self-sacrifice and fair play. 

_Fate_ , said Gwen, when their paths had crossed, to which Lancelot had uttered something horrendously romantic and noble, and had left for her own good, time and again. 

So by the time Arthur had shoved all notions of winning Merlin's favour into a little mental compartment labelled 'Do Not Open Under Pain of Death', Gwen, too, had given up on Lancelot ever letting himself love her like he should and agreed to wear Camelot's crown. 

They married before a hundred of their closest allies and acquaintances, under a radiant sun that poured in like honey through the stained glass windows, and pledged their love and fealty to each other, all the while knowing their hearts were reaching in opposite directions. 

Merlin didn't attend the festivities, due to coming down with a frightful ague the morning of the ceremony, and Arthur thought that was probably for the best. 

Things were fine for a while, routine and domestic: the people of Camelot took to their queen with great love; Gwen ruled by Arthur's side with a softness and warmth to temper his occasional moods; Merlin grew a beard out of sheer absentmindedness and Arthur pretended not to notice; disgruntled sorcerers turned up at the doorstep from time to time making lots of threatening gestures and Merlin sorted them all out. It wasn't a deliriously happy kind of life, but it was a functional life, nonetheless, and in any case, Arthur wasn't sure whether delirious happiness wasn't something people just made up on whims, like half the things Morgana talked about in her letters, from wherever she happened to be in her solo travels across land and sea. 

And then, possibly because the gods had grown bored with all the peaceful prosperity that had spread across the kingdom under Arthur's even hand and itched for the entertainment of a good confrontation, they opened a path for Lancelot to come back, for good. 

Conflict arrived on his heels. 

Arthur and Gwen rarely argued; he trusted her enough to give her executive power over numerous affairs of state, and she knew his mind well enough to carry out plans for the benefit of their people without having to consult him on every detail. They worked well together and apart, and even on the occasions that they did quarrel, things were well resolved within less than a day. 

So it was with something like the taste of novelty dancing at the tip of his tongue when Arthur stood firmly before her and Lancelot, immovable, and said, "No, you can't. I won't hear of it. I _forbid_ it." He wasn't in the habit of forbidding things, but this proposed arrangement definitely needed to be hacked off at the knees and its mangled remains flung to the dogs. He threw down his trump card. " _By order of the king_." 

Lancelot had the decency to look a little cowed, but Gwen only stepped forward and placed a hand on Arthur's arm. "We're doing this for you, Arthur."

"For me?" Arthur demanded, in what would have sounded like a laugh if it were possible for laughter to curdle. "You think I want this?"

"We have to."

"You don't. You don't have to do _anything_. I have _plans_ ," he said, scooping up a large piece of parchment and thrusting it at them. "Look."

"It's a map," said Gwen, and Arthur poked his finger at the parchment. Gwen's face, normally a study in perfect kindness and understanding, twitched. She opened her mouth slowly. "You've drawn what vaguely resembles a square next to the castle?"

"More like a rectangle, I should say," Lancelot interjected helpfully. "A trapezium, at least." 

"It's an _annex_ ," Arthur said, narrowing his eyes at the two of them. "Just off the south entrance of the castle. There are no doubt dozens of skilled stonemasons in need of some good work; we could have this ready for you by next spring."

This time Lancelot looked away, and Gwen rustled up a small smile from some endless well she had inside her. "You know we can't stay," she said, and there was a lilt of sadness in her tone that made Arthur feel the tiniest bit better, and then worse again. 

They didn't love each other as husband and wife ought to, but whatever semblance of a marriage they'd built together, Arthur had got used to it, found comfort in it. Gwen was a pillar of strength and a fount of wisdom, and he would be terribly sorry to see her go, especially for a reason as trivial as adultery.

But they did go in the end, after assuring Arthur that tracing a rhombus onto a map didn't exactly speak to forward planning, and that nobody would take him seriously as king ever again if he let his estranged wife and her illicit lover live next door, treading the same rushes and paths that he did every day. Gwen had kissed him sweetly on the cheek and Lancelot had bowed before him, and not long after, they became a speck on the horizon.

He spent a little while wishing he had paid more attention to the tutors who had tried to speak to him of modern architecture, though he was fairly sure that even the prettiest house in the world wouldn't have made a difference to Gwen and Lancelot. He couldn't exactly begrudge their decision, or their happiness. Lancelot was a fine man, and Gwen truly one of the gentlest souls he'd ever had the privilege to know, and she deserved every joy in the world. It just felt a bit unfair that she'd got to ride off into the sunset with the object of her affection, while his remained stupendously daft and, from the sounds of it, was currently blowing something up in his specially fortified magician's quarters. 

Then again, to Merlin's credit, he was the only one, seemingly in the whole of Camelot, who had good enough sense not to treat Arthur like a fragile little butterfly with a pierced wing. Aside, of course, from his foisting an awkward hug on Arthur's person just after Gwen and Lancelot had gone, which had only been awkward because Merlin had ambushed him from the shadows like some kind of crazy animal, and Arthur had only just barely enough time to register, first, that he wasn't being attacked and that it felt as though there were about a dozen more elbows involved than there ought, before Merlin had backed off, pink in the face. 

Others, depending on their station, either talked to him in the babying, cheering-up sort of voice he hadn't heard since his last nurse entreated him to be a brave boy after suffering a fall out of a tree when he was eight, or tiptoed around him like the slightest hint of a breeze would send him careening over the edge of madness. 

He'd also been getting extra, commiserative helpings of custard at supper from the cook, however, so it wasn't _all_ an exercise in misery. 

A distant thud rattled the foundations, and Arthur's mouth screwed into a frown. He didn't often ask Merlin what manner of insanity he conducted up in his tower, because the answers rarely made sense anyway, but occasionally the man needed to be reminded that the castle wasn't indestructible. Which Arthur would have thought he'd have figured out by now, considering how many times he'd had to save it from attack, magical or otherwise.

In fact, thought Arthur to himself as his footsteps traced a well-worn path towards Merlin's quarters, Merlin had been getting rather a bit forgetful with Arthur of late, and not in the usual convenience of leaving Arthur's armour and mail to rust in the corner while claiming to be finished with his all his chores. Though, of course, Merlin hadn't done that for a while now, seeing as court sorcerers generally weren't asked to do things like muck out the stables, unless one really wanted said mucked contents to mysteriously appear at the foot of one's bed. 

Not that Merlin would do such a petty thing or let power go to his head, though, all in all, it was probably better to be on the safe side when it came to these insanely powerful magical types -- at least, that was what Arthur had told his advisors when they'd raised all kinds of opposition to promoting Merlin out of servitude. 

Besides, having an official court sorcerer was useful (though perhaps it might have been more useful if Arthur hadn't lifted the ban on magic in the first place); Merlin knew how to deal with things everyone else didn't, and often moonlighted as court physician during the times when Gaius's successor felt a little overwhelmed with everybody turning up at his doorstep festooned with purple spots and sickly feathers after the occasional disagreement in the marketplace. 

Everyone seemed to want to dabble in the magical arts these days, from rainmaking to seduction, most of which often failed to achieve the intended results, as magic required not only practice but innate ability; Arthur figured that once the novelty wore off, the seventeen new stalls that had popped up overnight to hawk occult wares would go back to selling cabbages again, disputes in the lower town would once again end up with bloody noses and bruised knuckles rather than outbreaks of funny-coloured protuberances, and delusional village boys would stop haranguing Merlin to let them apprentice with him. 

_Rowan_ was the latest in a string of incompetent apprentices who, over the past year or so, had come knocking on Merlin's door more intent on learning tricks to dazzle girls than for any real interest in sorcery, though this one, come just from the lower town and no older than Merlin had been when he'd first arrived to Camelot, was a little taller and more strapping than the usual fare. In fact, Arthur had once wondered if he might steal young Rowan for potential knighthood instead, but scrapped the idea when Sir Leon, on covert reconnaissance, had reported him to be dumber than a post. 

It wasn't immediately apparent why Merlin agreed to keep the boy around when he had no discernible skills aside from skiving off work at every available opportunity. The irony of _Merlin_ , of all people, taking on an addlepated apprentice was not lost on Arthur, though he would have enjoyed it better had Merlin deigned to acknowledge that Rowan was complete rubbish at everything (and not half as endearing about being useless, but Arthur was keeping that little nugget to himself). 

Gwen, in her reply to Arthur's various letters of complaint, had suggested the boy might be _cute_. 

"Chuh," Arthur said to himself, ascending the winding pathway to Merlin's room. 

He entered the room without knocking -- kings were above knocking, was what he'd told Merlin when the latter had tried to reproduce Arthur's favourite lecture -- and found Merlin hanging halfway out the window with an astrolabe in hand, and Rowan sitting despondently on top of an overturned bucket in the corner, pretending to read some thick, dusty tome Merlin had probably forced upon him. 

Arthur stalked forward, grabbed a fistful of the back of Merlin's tunic, and yanked. 

"Do you know how difficult it is to scrub blood out of flagstones?" he demanded, when Merlin had finished flailing. 

"No," said Merlin, and cocked his head. "Neither do you."

"Well, I'm not keen on finding out," said Arthur, who was, at the moment, feeling more keen on boxing Merlin's ear, "so stop dangling yourself out of towers before you fall to your death."

Rowan, who had only just now discovered that he was in the presence of royalty, shuffled to his feet. 

"And _you_ ," Arthur accused, while mentally composing his response to Gwen that the boy, with his stupid blond hair and stupider blue eyes, was definitely not bloody cute. "Do _condescend_ to pay attention once in a while. Merlin could have defenestrated himself before your very eyes, you clot."

The sorcerer's apprentice made a tiny sound. 

"Er, Rowan, why don't you go and pick those plants I asked for yesterday?" came Merlin to the rescue, and the boy fled the scene. 

"Why do you keep him around?" Arthur asked.

"Well, he's come a long way," said Merlin slowly, though it didn't really sound like he'd be able to provide any evidence of it. "I think he could shape up to be a good worker. Er, eventually." 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "He's worse than you were when you arrived, and it took you at least three years to master _sweeping_." 

"I resent that," said Merlin, playing with his astrolabe again, and gave Arthur a conspiratorial look. "I'm pretty sure it was closer to two."

Arthur laughed, and sat down at Merlin's bench, propping his feet on the table. 

Merlin smiled warmly, as of old, and then, as though he'd just descended into and emerged from a fog, suddenly blinked at him as though surprised to see him. "Was there something you needed, sire?" he asked with perfectly cultivated politeness. 

"Er," said Arthur, removing his feet from the table awkwardly. "Yes, if you could keep your explosions to a dull roar. I'd prefer it if Camelot remained standing, you know."

"Oh, right, right, yes. Will do," said Merlin. 

Arthur nodded towards the astrolabe bobbling between Merlin's hands. "Is that new, then?" he asked, fishing for any topic of conversation to be able to remain in the room. 

It was a bit pathetic, admittedly, but sometimes he could feel Merlin drawing away from him as tangibly as a splash of cold water to the face, and it was disconcerting to keep bumping up against Merlin's odd, new boundaries when, in the past, Merlin had been the one who kept breaking Arthur's down. 

At first, Arthur had prescribed it to Merlin just being his weird self -- he was prone to these episodes of going off alone to save the world, not telling anybody about it and then coming home, surprised and sometimes disappointed to still be alive, and internalising it all into moody outbursts or fits of inappropriate laughter. But ever since Arthur had put all the pieces together and not only confronted Merlin about being magic, but accepted it as well, Arthur had thought the days of Merlin playing everything too close to the chest were well over. They'd gone on campaigns, when those from beyond the borders had decided to test Camelot's strength under a new king, Arthur wielding sword and shield and Merlin calling up ancient powers from the earth and sky, and they had been tremendous together. 

That all seemed a bit distant now; there was an irksome feeling niggling at the back of Arthur's mind that Merlin had started hiding something from him again, and had been doing so for quite a while. Arthur wouldn't say it _hurt_ , exactly, that Merlin had regressed to not trusting him again, but -- well, maybe it did, a little bit. It was supremely annoying, at the very least. 

"Hm?" said Merlin, looking up and resting his gaze on a point just past Arthur's left ear. As Arthur gestured, Merlin's face blinked into recognition. "Oh, this, yeah. Morgana sent it to me; she says it's from the Orient. Bit different to the one I have, actually," he said, and turned abruptly to go on a hunt for it. 

"Ah," said Arthur, who, despite his past tutors' best efforts, still had yet to discover any real interest in astronomy. He fidgeted as Merlin disappeared around a corner, feeling itchy and unsure as to how to get Merlin's familiarity back. "Heard from Morgana, then?"

Merlin's head popped up from behind a groaning shelf. "Few days ago. She says hello," he said, and muttered to himself something that sounded like, _told him not to move my things around_. 

"Ah," said Arthur again, as much to himself as to Merlin, feeling unreasonably smug that Rowan had done poorly. "Well, I'm glad she's still alive and well enough to decide not to write to me properly." 

There was a light smacking sound from the other side of the shelf. Merlin's head appeared again. "She did. Write to you, I mean," he said hastily, and came round to the bench to shuffle through more things, finally producing a small, folded piece of parchment addressed to Arthur in Morgana's precise penmanship, one of the few surviving traits she'd carried over from her royal upbringing. 

Merlin passed the letter over, a corner of his mouth stretched downward in embarrassed penitence. 

"What if," Arthur said, plucking the missive from Merlin's outstretched fingers and crackling it open, "this was important?"

"Then she wouldn't have entrusted me with giving it to you?" Merlin guessed. 

"You're just lucky she already got 'Dear Arthur, Mordred is coming to kill you' out of the way years ago."

For reasons neither of them had much been willing to explicate, Merlin and Morgana had fallen out some years ago, disastrously, and then for reasons they were both still cagey about, they'd decided to forgive, forget and become better friends than they'd ever been before. Now, Merlin seemed to be the one person at Camelot Morgana kept in touch with regularly, and she often sent him gifts from abroad and long letters, while Arthur only occasionally got little notes like the one in his hands. 

_Dear Arthur, hope all is well at home. Saw a fat boar snorting around in the undergrowth today; thought of you. All my love, Morgana._

Arthur rolled his eyes, though he carefully folded and pocketed the letter, and briefly wondered if perhaps he ought not have absorbed such vast quantities of sympathy and custard in recent weeks. 

Despite their differences, he did miss Morgana, with whom he'd grown up and shared little mischiefs all up and down the castle throughout their childhood. It seemed like everyone he cared about was gone -- his father had passed, Gaius was retired, Morgana was conquering faraway lands, Gwen had gone and discovered that delirious happiness wasn't some kind of scam. And Merlin, well -- Merlin remained, stupid and lovely and distant. 

It was all Arthur could do not to clutch Merlin by the shoulders and demand he stay in sight and within an arm's length at all times. Preferably less than that, but Arthur would take what he could get. 

Merlin uttered a small cry of triumph, locating his old astrolabe from underneath a mess of miscellaneous curios. He held it up to Arthur, shining and pleased with himself for a moment before his eyebrows came together in a knot. "Er, why was I looking for that?" he asked, and screwed his mouth into a confused frown. "Oh well. There it is. What did you want it for?"

Arthur's jaw shifted, displacing an eyebrow upwards. "Is there something wrong with you? I mean, beyond your usual capacity for mental defection," he said, mostly out of habit, peering in for a closer look at Merlin's face. Perhaps he had sustained a concussion while Rowan had been busy doing nothing in his dunce's corner and was only now exhibiting its effects. It was clear Arthur would have to come by more often to keep an eye on him. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Er," said Merlin, batting his hand out of the way, "I'm not blind, you know."

An impolite cough sounded at the door. 

"Yes, Rowan?" Merlin said, and then frowned. "Where are the plants?"

"I forgot what you wanted, sir," the boy said dully. 

"My god, you are uncommonly thick," Arthur butted in, teeming with reproval, but secretly delighted that he compared so favourably to Merlin's asinine companion. Of course, he _was_ the king, so by rights he should already have had a significant advantage, even putting his sterling personality and good looks aside, but when it came to Merlin, who knew what the man was after?

The only romantic relationship Arthur even knew of was one that involved a very nice young lady Merlin had taken him to see, not long after his coronation. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong there, but considering the lady hadn't been so much lady as spirit, and lived at the bottom of a lake, apparently spending her time fishing around for things Merlin had once chucked in there, he could see why pursuing a long-term relationship may not have been the most practical of courses. In any case, Merlin hadn't seemed to be in love with her anymore when they'd gone to fetch the sword; he and the lady had spent some time talking out of earshot, but as most of it had seemed to revolve around a lot of her pointing and giggling at him, Arthur's guesses as to the topic of conversation probably hadn't been too far off. 

It still didn't give him any valuable clues, however, as to what would entice Merlin. Though not being dead probably helped.

Arthur tuned himself back in to the conversation at hand, where Merlin was very patiently explaining what foxglove and agrimony looked like and _haven't we gone over this before_ and _what happened to that book on herbs I gave you to read_ , and Arthur rolled his eyes. 

"Sack him," Arthur mouthed over Rowan's head, and was rewarded with Merlin breaking into an impish grin, mid-lecture. 

Feeling rather more secure, Arthur decided to leave Merlin to his instruction, and wound his way down again to the main floor to sit in his throne room for a good think. He liked his throne room; it was different to his father's, which had been large and draughty, and had contained a long table that often required those seated at the ends to shout at one another in order to be heard. Luckily, shouting had been one of Uther's treasured pastimes; Arthur, however, much preferred calm discourse and had installed a round table instead, which not only called for more judicious use of raised voices, it also took a much shorter time to pass the wine and snacks around.

Arthur slid into his chair, hands spread across the tabletop as if holding court. If only he could ask his advisors for their opinions; he'd taken care to populate his council with sharp minds and compassionate hearts, and their views had often helped him a great deal in deciding matters of state. As such, they probably wouldn't appreciate being called to assembly so he could pick their brains on the most efficient course of action to lure Merlin to his bedchambers and keep him there. Also, the fact that Merlin sat at his right hand during these functions would likely make it very awkward for all involved. 

In trying times like these, he'd have consulted Gwen, but, of course, she'd deserted him and his problems for lifelong happiness, which he still felt was a bit wretched of her, after all those years of being so amenable and easygoing. Worse still, her finally reuniting with Lancelot had given him hope that maybe one day he and Merlin might be similarly delirious with one another's company, and the label he'd put on the tucked-away box of Merlin-related feelings had gradually changed from 'Do Not Open Under Pain of Death' to 'Do Not Open Under Pain of, Well, Maybe Something Akin to a Bee-Sting. Those Are Very Irritating, Aren't They?' He did write her letters about it, she being one of two people (the other being himself) who knew his feelings for Merlin, and she was usually very kind about it, saying things like _he'll come round, I'm sure of it; his dedication to you must mean something_ , apart from the time when she'd decided Rowan was cute. 

"Pfft," said Arthur to the room at large.

Wooing Gwen had been easy. Wooing women in general was easy; trusses of flowers and personalised letters and whole roast chicken seemed like pretty sure-fire ways to win a woman's heart, at least in his experience. With Merlin, he'd tried wildly varying tactics: heart-to-heart talks, going topless all the time and taking interest in his astro-thingamabobs, but Merlin's affections still remained elusive. 

Arthur perked up. Maybe wooing Merlin wasn't meant to be different; maybe he _would_ like to adorn his quarters with wildflowers Arthur had specially picked for him and tuck under his pillow little sonnets Arthur had penned and have his table graced with a plump fowl Arthur had ordered to be killed. It was all so very simple; Arthur marvelled at the fact that he'd never thought of it before, and decided this was probably Merlin's fault, because Merlin liked to make things as difficult as possible -- like the time he'd refused to fall for Arthur, which only happened to be all the time. 

Well, that would soon change, if Arthur had anything to say about it. And he did. 

_There once was a fellow named Merlin_ , he wrote. 

It took him till the next morning to finally decide to scrap the poem, as, continuing in his trend of hampering romantic progress, Merlin had a name that rhymed with absolutely nothing. The single line of poetry stared at Arthur, mocking him in his own jaunty handwriting, as did all sorts of crossed-out words he'd considered shoving into the rhyme scheme, like _curling_ and _vermin_ and _gherkin_ , which all had a rightful place in the lexicon, but did not speak to the kind of epic ode Arthur was shooting for. He shredded the parchment to bits and sauntered to the kitchens to toss the evidence into one of the ever-burning cooking fires. 

"Good day, my lord," said a cook, rather anxiously.

"Hello," said Arthur, idly inspecting the breakfast they were just laying out on a tray. 

"It's just about ready, sire; we'll have it sent up to your chambers at once," said the cook, who was not in the habit of receiving royal visits, and wrung his hands in worry. 

Arthur eyed him bemusedly. "Oh, right. Yes, good. Er, is that a bit of custard I see there?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Perhaps --" Arthur discreetly prodded his tummy; the impressive musculature he'd built up seemed in no danger of receding, but he thought he'd better leave off the custard, just in case future opportunities for misplacing all his shirts while in Merlin's presence happened to crop up. "No more custard. I've gone off it," he said, regretfully. 

Damn Morgana for putting ideas into his head. Though custard for breakfast did seem a bit much, even for someone as heavily depressed as everybody seemed to think he was. 

Besides, he wasn't sure being shirtless in Merlin's presence was completely a waste of time. No doubt Merlin ignored him or treated him much the same as ever for the most part, but there had been a few instances he recalled where Merlin had _seemed_ to appreciate the eyeful of manliness parading about in front of him. And there had been times when Merlin hadn't even said anything about Arthur's tunics being left unlaced even though the collar openings split right down to the navel. Surely that meant something. Possibly aside from Merlin being a terrible manservant, or one of those friends who wouldn't tell you you looked fat in your chainmail even if you did. 

Arthur plodded back to his chambers. He ate his breakfast slowly, which had rushed ahead of him to be laid out on his table in a wide and pleasing arrangement, and peered out his window. The gardens were in full bloom and the sun seemed to be making quite the effort today; he wondered if anyone would miss a few heads of roses hacked off.

Unfortunately, as he had never so much as taken a turn about the gardens since their installation -- why stroll when one could run, after all -- the gardeners pottering about eyed him with thinly-veiled suspicion, as though appalled that he had the audacity to set foot on Camelot's manicured grounds without their leave. And though he had brought his dagger with him to do some quick and dirty topiary work of his own, the watchful gaze of the groundskeepers compelled him to leave the rose bushes unscathed for the moment. Galling, really, that he couldn't even destroy his own hedges if he wanted to.

Anyway, he thought bracingly as he ambled past the garden walls and to the fields beyond that skirted the forest, Merlin probably wasn't even a rose-appreciating kind of person; he was, in fact, the kind of person who would manage to inadvertently stab himself with its thorns and develop a gangrenous infection. All in all, it would be safer if he provided Merlin with blossoms that wouldn't find a way to severely maim him. 

Even at its outer edges, the forest was noisy in the sunshine; overhead the birdsong of several different species competed for attention, too busy trying to outdo each other to notice Arthur creeping along the floor and plucking indiscriminately at anything brightly-coloured. A snatch of foxglove went into the collection as well, because unlike _Rowan_ , Arthur remembered things Merlin told him and also wasn't a complete ninny. He'd bet anything that Rowan had gone home and totally forgotten his tasks again, and Arthur would show him up, not only with a lovely gift of flowers but the very plant Merlin had been asking for for days. He didn't know what Merlin wanted it for, but he hoped it involved poisoning Rowan just a little bit; it would be a very effective way of helping the boy remember what the plant looked like, at any rate. 

Arthur sighed to himself, slightly embarrassed to be thinking such unkingly thoughts. He could only conclude that being in love made him very stupid, and carried on, thankful that there was no one around to judge him.

When he'd divested a good portion of the landscape of its natural beauty, Arthur returned to the castle and stopped in to beg a length of ribbon from a seamstress, surrendering a stalk in exchange. The seamstress had blushed, clearly won over by his charm in two seconds flat, and Arthur resisted the urge to complain to her about Merlin's iron-clad defence against all his advances.

Well, if a single flower had the power to flush a woman's cheek, then surely an entire armload would at least put a little chink in Merlin's armour. Arthur dithered outside Merlin's door for a while, wondering whether secret courtship required knocking or if their many years of friendship trumped silly little shows of politeness. Tired with his own indecisiveness, Arthur kicked the door open, only to find the room empty. 

Congealed dregs of porridge sat in a bowl on the table, so Merlin had obviously already arisen and was out being helpful somewhere, and Rowan obviously hadn't reported for duty yet, otherwise there wouldn't be leftover porridge crusting before Arthur's eyes. He sat down at Merlin's bench, looking around for a nice, tidy place to set his bouquet down, but this was Merlin's room they were talking about, so surfaces of tables and ledges probably hadn't seen the light of day in years. 

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation and a bit of snooping around for a secret diary that hopefully contained his and Merlin's names enclosed in large hearts (but sadly did not appear to exist), Arthur placed the flowers at the edge of the bench, away from all the flammable materials and well in view of the door, so it'd be the first thing Merlin saw when he came back. 

Arthur did have some kingly work to do, unfortunately, and couldn't afford to wait around to catch Merlin's expression (gratitude, certainly, he imagined, and he wouldn't be averse to seeing Merlin's face shine with deep love, either). He left his gift unattended and went to his throne room to deal with the reports that had piled up while he'd been out communing with nature and stealing her stuff.

An hour or two later, he emerged, well satisfied with his productivity, and let his mind flood with thoughts of Merlin again, now that he'd gotten the morning's paperwork out of the way. It came as no surprise that he ended up wending his way back to Merlin's quarters, and, by a stroke of luck, bumped into Merlin heading in the same direction. 

"Oh, hallo, Arthur," said Merlin cheerfully. "Have you come to see me?"

Arthur murmured his agreement.

"Well, you've come at a good time; I was away most of the morning."

"I did stop by earlier..." Arthur said, and trailed off, wondering if he should bring up the flowers, which he was beginning to feel a little unsure about. Maybe he should have done in a chicken instead.

They arrived at Merlin's rooms, and Merlin uttered a surprised, "Oh!" upon entering. Arthur peered over his shoulder to see the flowers still in place and intact, and Rowan in his corner again, inspecting some stain on the toe of his boot.

"Rowan, well done!" Merlin cried, striding forward to scoop up the bundle of flowers. "Foxglove, exactly what I needed. And -- some of these other things..." he said, apparently a little puzzled as to why he had been brought one of every species of flower native to Albion, but pleased nonetheless.

"Eh?" said Rowan, but, in a stunning display of quick thinking that would have put all celebrated war strategists throughout history to shame, went on to add, "Oh, yeah, thought you might use that stuff. You know, for your experiments and that."

Arthur slowly bent to pick his jaw up from the floor and reattached it. The nerve of that little toad. Of course, he couldn't claim credit for the bloody flowers now, not when Merlin was looking so happy that his idiot apprentice had finally got up off his arse to do something remotely close to useful. And not while Rowan was still in the room, radiating complacency, and not even having the forethought to look perplexed as to how he'd managed to gain the glory for somebody else's work. Arthur glowered. 

Merlin sifted through the stalks. "I _am_ still missing heartsease, though."

"It's still early in the day," Arthur said, glad that he hadn't gone round picking every plant on Merlin's list. "I'm sure young Rowan will have no trouble finding a nice supply of it. Will you, young Rowan?" He clapped the boy on the back with extreme vigour. 

Obediently, albeit somewhat sulkily, Rowan trudged out of the room, and Arthur shut the door behind him. 

"He's improving," Merlin said. 

"He isn't. He's awful," Arthur insisted. "If you're that desperate for an apprentice, Merlin, surely a plank of wood would serve you better than that boy."

"I just want to give him a chance. Like you did for me; you could've fired me two seconds after your father made me your manservant."

"Yes, as I recall, there were many injurious things said about my royal person that day."

"It was good for you," Merlin said, grinning.

Arthur crooked an eyebrow. "I do still have firing power, you know."

"Nonsense," said Merlin. "You wouldn't have a clue what to do without me."

Before Arthur could utter any semblance of _Yes, you're right, Merlin; come away with me and let's be the happiest, loveliest couple in all of history; we can go and visit Gwen and Lancelot and rub it in their faces_ , Merlin turned away abruptly, massaging some ache in his chest and blinking curiously, like he'd just plum forgotten something very important. 

"Ahh," he said, at length, "you said you were coming to see me about something?"

And there it was again. Dealing with Merlin these days was like trying to walk through an open door, knowing that what lay on the other side was light and comfort and familiarity, but then discovering, by smacking face-first into it, that the door had only been painted on. Arthur frowned to himself; dealing with Merlin these days was as tortured as making up metaphors on dealing with Merlin. 

"Yes," Arthur said slowly, thinking. "How do you feel about chicken?"

"Er," said Merlin.

"Great," said Arthur, and heaved himself towards the door. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Much to his chagrin, however, the kitchen staff had not adequately prepared the stores for unexpected demands for fresh chicken, and so, when Merlin arrived that evening to Arthur's table, awash in the flicker of candlelight, Arthur was already feeling less than confident about the efficacy of dried meat in the pursuit of romantic endeavours. For his part, Merlin alternated between varying degrees of happy warmth and mannered civility, and by the end of the meal, Arthur was no closer to drawing declarations of love out of Merlin -- or even getting him to stop being so dashedly _polite_ half the time -- and felt the failure keenly. 

Of course, once he had the foresight to inform the castle cooks that chicken was on the menu, he might have another go of it. It didn't really have the same ring to it after all, _destiny and salted pork_.

A few days passed without Arthur being able to cultivate any extended interaction with Merlin, as a butchers' brawl in the market had devolved quite badly into a number of civilians sporting new noses and waggly tails, and it took some time for Merlin to get them back to normal. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to put just a tiny, little ban on magic?" Arthur asked, when he found Merlin sitting on the steps in the courtyard, looking utterly exhausted as he waved goodbye to the last of the victims. 

Merlin smiled up at him. "Yes," he said. "It'll only lead to more problems, I'm sure."

Arthur plopped down on the stair, giving Merlin a light push with his shoulder. "You need a rest."

"I'll turn in early tonight," Merlin said, scrubbing his face with one hand. 

"No, I mean a _proper_ rest. When was the last time you visited Ealdor?"

Merlin's eyebrows rose a fraction before drawing together, the corners of his mouth downturned as he tried to remember. He gestured vaguely after a while. "A year, maybe?"

"Well, there you are," said Arthur. "As your king, I order you to take at least a week off to go and see your mother."

"Arthur --"

"I said ' _As your king,_ ' Merlin. That makes it an official decree. I _will_ put it down in writing and get one of the knights to proclaim it to you if I have to. There will be trumpets."

"Fine," Merlin groused, though the smile on his face told a much different story.

Arthur pushed himself to a standing position and stretched. "Good. Day after next, then, at first light. See you then; it'll be an excellent outing for the both of us," he said, and scarpered before Merlin could adequately register the fact that Arthur had appointed himself Merlin's travelling companion and houseguest. 

In some societies it might have been considered rude, but Hunith had repeatedly told him, from the very first time he'd set foot there, that he was always welcome in her home at any time, and now he was going to hold her to that offer. Besides, the chance to spend some quality alone time with Merlin was too good to pass up; maybe he'd finally be able to hurdle Merlin's walls and get the man to talk to him again, properly.

He spent the next day avoiding Merlin so nobody had a chance to rescind Arthur's invitation to himself, though his feet, rebellious things, tried to lead him up Merlin's tower first thing after lunch; following this, he locked himself up in the throne room with his nice round table and a healthy supply of mead, and set himself to solving all of Camelot's problems at one go. Sir Leon looked in on him from time to time, just to make sure he wasn't accidentally creating more problems instead in the stupor of his self-imposed exile from the rest of the castle -- and once was obliged to come in and listen to him go on at length about a nameless sorcerer who he greatly admired, but otherwise Arthur remained undisturbed. 

Night fell, going black and blue all over, and Arthur, having finished restructuring the entire political and economic system, gloated quietly to himself that there had been no sign all day of Merlin trying to get at him to make him stay in Camelot. Perhaps it meant that Merlin was looking forward to having Arthur ride alongside him, although it was similarly possible that, in his newfound regard for minding his manners, Merlin might have just chosen to keep his gob shut about being imposed upon. That didn't seem very like Merlin, though, Arthur decided. He could _sire_ and _my lord_ Arthur all he liked, but in his heart of hearts, Merlin was an impudent, insolent little whelp who didn't like following anyone's orders, and if he truly had a problem with Arthur coming home with him, he'd have engineered a way to make Arthur squirrel out of it by now. 

With that happy thought in mind, Arthur's steps were extra sprightly as he made his way back to his chambers. He stripped off his clothing and tucked himself under the blankets, with hope and anticipation his bedfellows.

Just before sunrise, Arthur bounced out of bed again. Lighting a candle, he pattered over to his wardrobe and picked through his vast collection of red tops before eyeing with satisfaction a cornflower blue at the bottom of the pile (Gwen had once told him it was nice because it brought out the colour of his eyes and he'd said, _Why in the world would anyone care about that_ , and that was why Gwen was really the cleverer between them). He dressed quickly and did a mental inventory of all the things he'd ordered to be packed and saddled onto his mount, and whisked out of his chambers, whistling loudly and making a heinous nuisance of himself all down the way to the stables.

Anyone else might have ended up in the stocks for delivering such a blow to music's good name, especially at this ungodly hour, but Arthur, besides being the king, thought it was well within his rights to feel excited for once. He didn't have much to get all aflutter over; most of his life had involved bowing to royal duties, whether it was receiving with a wide smile guests he loathed at his own birthday celebrations, or marrying people to appease other people, or going off to die for Camelot all the time. This trip would be purely for himself -- admittedly, a little selfish, considering he had a whole population to look after, but he'd only be away for a few days, and if his knights didn't know by now how to deal with surprise attacks by miffy dragons and things, then it would make no difference if he was in residence or not. 

He had to prod a stablehand awake, and his horse seemed about as eager to ride out as _Rowan_ when set on an errand, but Arthur felt no damper to his spirits. He stroked his mount's nose, and it gave him a sidelong glare, as if already exhausted with him. Merlin had borrowed it recently, to attend to a bit of magic gone awry in one of the south-lying villages, and Arthur clucked his tongue at how swiftly it had switched loyalties and picked up Merlin's demeanour.

The horses were saddled and ready to go in short order, and brought to the courtyard, where servants laded them with the week's worth of clothing and gifts, and various supplies for the journey.

To Arthur's surprise, Rowan had arrived early, looking slack-jawed as usual, to help Merlin with packing his horse. Merlin hovered nearby, a nervous look cast over his face, which Arthur could only ascribe to being anxious about his apprentice dropping half the things and having to reload them repeatedly. Or possibly because Merlin kept having to run back up his tower to fetch things he'd forgotten. 

Arthur stood to one side for a while, watching with increased interest as Rowan piled and strapped and hung things on Merlin's chestnut, until it became apparent that the horse would soon buckle. As Merlin was up in his quarters no doubt rooting around for something else he didn't need to carry, Arthur had no choice but to address the apprentice himself. 

"Oi, you," he said, in his sternest tones, and strode forward to survey the detritus accumulating atop the poor animal. "What _is_ all this? Are you sure this is all necessary?"

"Dunno," Rowan said, helpful as ever.

Arthur poked around, pulling bundles off as he went; it seemed like the entire contents of Merlin's room, tired of a sedentary lifestyle, had made a great escape en masse downstairs. A bag of loud clinking caught his attention as he pulled at it, and he peered inside; several bottles of sloshy red liquid stared back at him, each labelled in Merlin's hurried scrawl: _Vitamyne A_. 

"What are these for?" 

"Dunno," Rowan said again. But being the veritable font of knowledge that he was, he deigned to add, "Master Merlin drinks 'em every night. Some kind of supplemental nutriment." The polysyllabic words were forced out with some great effort, which meant that he'd only heard Merlin saying them and had no idea what he was really talking about. 

" _Not_ necessary, then," Arthur deduced. He removed the bag, to the horse's immense relief, and handed it to Rowan, who managed not to fumble it. Before long, the foot of the courtyard steps were littered with a large selection of Merlin's possessions unsuited for the trip, which, incidentally, happened to be most of them. 

"Why --" said Merlin, when he returned to find half his luggage discarded. 

"Fifteen books, Merlin, really. You won't even have time to read any of them," Arthur said, ushering him forward. "Now, let's get a move on; we're losing daylight as it is."

Amid a flurry of _But those are my things_ and _We'll be away for a week, Merlin, not three years_ , they managed to get themselves astride their horses and on the road eventually, with both of them having given Rowan strict instructions to bring all the leftovers back up to the tower and not to let it all just sit and rot outside (and Arthur had provided extra incentives for good work with mention of a vacancy in the stocks). The start of the journey was silent, due to Merlin challenging himself to pout as long and hard as he could, but the day was bright and lovely, and the trill of songbirds so pretty that Merlin was forced to give up his sulk within ten minutes.

"This is nice," Arthur said, and frowned at himself for having unwittingly turned into a paragon of banality.

"Mm," said Merlin in agreement, his neck craning all over the place to trace the flitter of little birds overhead.

Still yet to surrender his monopoly on insipid conversation, Arthur added, "Bit like old times."

Merlin smiled at the sky, and it shone back at him. "Well, sort of. I mean, when we used to ride out together it was usually because we had to fight something, or find something, or kill something. Couldn't really just amble along and enjoy the scenery," he said, and plucked a leaf off a low twig, twirling its tiny stalk between his fingers.

"Yeah," said Arthur, watching the leaf spin, and felt his heart dance a similar pirouette. 

Whether it was destiny or just luck, there was something truly remarkable about how his and Merlin's lives had twined together; there had been countless -- _countless_ \-- battles they'd had to endure, within Camelot and without, and death had reached for them at every turn -- that they were even both still alive and well and still by each other's side was almost beyond belief. How could he _not_ love Merlin? The man had been through everything with him and for him. Even if he was fated never to win Merlin's heart, he knew he'd already received more than his fair share of fortune by earning Merlin's loyalty.

"No fights, no quarries; nothing to look forward to but peace and quiet and your mother's cooking," Arthur said, smiling widely to squash down the tragic prospect of never having his affections returned. "This is just -- for us." 

Merlin gave him a brilliant smile in return, and it stayed for a second; then, like someone had just come along with a snuffer and capped a candle, the light behind his eyes went out. He looked down his shirtfront, as though expecting to find something there, but only ended up rubbing absently at his chest, a curious look on his face. When he met Arthur's gaze again, a polite smile slotted into place. "Er, what were we just talking about?"

Arthur opened his mouth, but unable to decide whether to berate him for not paying attention or for being the most frustrating man to ever walk the earth, only said, "Nothing important."

He spurred his horse forward so that he rode in front instead, and felt Merlin's eyes burning on him, but did not turn to look back. 

By the time they stopped to set up camp for the evening, however, Arthur had regained his good humour; after all, it wasn't Merlin's fault that Arthur was in love with him -- well, actually it _was_ , but Arthur couldn't very well order him to stop being so appealing; besides, with Merlin being such a contrarian, he'd probably just unearth some new way to be extra attractive, and where would Arthur be then? In any case, ignoring him the whole trip was the exact opposite of what he'd set out to accomplish, and Arthur hated not being able to tick things off his to-do lists. 

There was a large stream nearby, its icy flow refreshing after a long day in the sun and a bit of a temper. Standing at the edge of the bank while Merlin tied up the horses, Arthur's repeated attempts to snare a fish for their supper proved futile, and Merlin sauntered by, looking amused as he watched. Arthur considered drenching himself in the stream so as to have an excuse to wear less clothing, but decided it wasn't worth being squelchy for the rest of the evening. 

"You _could_ help," said Arthur. 

"But you're doing so well, my lord," Merlin said, with a hint of laughter in his voice. 

"Stop it with the _my lords_ and make yourself useful, sorcerer."

A brown trout flew out of the water at Merlin's command, barely a flick of his wrist -- Merlin rarely had to use spoken words anymore, so potent were his powers now, and Arthur took a brief moment to wonder whether it was a total waste of talent to have Merlin use them to catch dinner, but he was getting sick of standing at the stream looking a fool, and the fish swimming past were starting to look like they were having a bit of a laugh at his expense. He trudged his way back to their camp, shaking his hands of excess water, and gathered up a handful of dry sticks from the ground to add to their firewood pile. 

Another slight movement sheared the fish clean of its scales, and Merlin padded over with their catch, a long stick threaded through it, and burst a merry fire to life.

"Lazy," said Arthur, sticking his hands close to its warmth. 

Merlin chuckled, turning the fish over the flames. "You wouldn't have dinner if it wasn't for me."

Arthur smiled wanly to himself, and looked straight at Merlin, holding his gaze. "I'd really be lost without you, Merlin," he said, trying to keep his tone light, but he could feel the edge of emotion elbowing its way through. 

The fish swayed dangerously; Arthur hadn't imagined the serious sincerity in his own voice after all. Merlin stared with wide, vulnerable eyes, seemingly at a loss, before hastening to his feet. "Here, hold this a minute, will you?" he said tightly, handing the stick to Arthur, and strode over to where he'd stationed the horses. 

A deep sigh rumbled out of Arthur's throat at having been stonewalled again. He prodded the fish carelessly and then sucked at a charred finger. There was still a little light in the sky, and he could make out Merlin's silhouette, not far away, riffling through their bags. 

"Arthur?" said Merlin, after a few minutes of increasingly frantic searching. 

"Yes?" Arthur called back. 

Merlin came back into view, approaching the fire. "Er, you wouldn't have happened to see a bag with a lot of little bottles in it, would you?"

"Of red stuff?"

"Yes," Merlin said, with hope. 

"Right, your nutritious supplement things?" Arthur picked at the fish, jabbed it in Merlin's direction. "Fish is ready."

"The bag, Arthur?"

"Left it," said Arthur, and at Merlin's horrified expression, thought it better to carry on until the expression went away. He stood, so there'd be less height from which Merlin could lour at him. "Well, look, Merlin, we're only out for a week; we really didn't need to carry all those extra things. Plus, all those _bottles_ \-- on top of everything else you'd wanted to bring, you were this close to laming the horse where it stood. And what do you need all that surplus nutrition for, anyway? Don't the cooks feed you well enough? I know your mother certainly will. You're not ill, are you?" he finished, slightly out of breath. With any luck, he'd have laid down enough misdirectional threads for Merlin to get tangled up among them and forget to be angry. 

As hoped, Merlin looked a little stunned. "Well," he began slowly, "I'm not ill, not really."

"Not _really_?" Arthur picked up. 

"Not ill," Merlin amended. "I'm fine."

"You're _not_ ," Arthur insisted, in the same sort of tones one might shout 'Aha!' upon espying a comrade's feet under a tapestry during hide-and-seek. As this was probably as good an opening as he was going to get to address what had been bothering him, he forged ahead with the relentlessness of a battering ram. There would be time for regrets and offering to pay for the damage later. "You haven't been fine for a while."

Merlin shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

Arthur gestured widely; now that he had an audience, he had no idea where to begin without sounding like an overly sensitive tit, what with the horrendous amount of _feelings_ involved. "You're -- different," he said, which he thought was rather a stupid way to start off. "We never finish half our conversations now because you just -- you go blank and then have to ask me what we were just talking about."

"Oh..." said Merlin, his eyebrows rising a fraction. His mouth twisted downwards as some realisation dawned upon him. "Oh dear."

"Yes, _exactly_ ," said Arthur, though he wasn't entirely sure they were oh dearing about the same thing.

"I'm sorry -- about the forgetfulness. I'll be better about it, I promise. Look, the fish is getting cold."

When they'd got themselves all sorted out, Arthur thought, he'd really have to teach Merlin some better diversionary tactics. He waved the stick away; perhaps such jejune distractions worked on amateurs like _Rowan_ , but Arthur was too well-versed in the art to fall for it. There was no time for fish when he was finally making some kind of headway. It would only give Merlin a reason to stop talking, and then they'd end up right back where they'd started, with Merlin closing himself off and Arthur whining and scratching to be let in. "The fish, Merlin," he said, "is immaterial. What do you need that red stuff for, anyway?"

"Erm," said Merlin, toppled off-guard. He glanced at Arthur quickly, a sheen of guilt in his eyes. "It's for my mother. Health tonic, you know."

Arthur screwed his mouth into a frown. Whatever Rowan's myriad faults, there was no reason for the boy to lie to him. "Your apprentice said they were yours."

"He must have been mistaken."

"He said you drink it every day."

Merlin's lips pressed together, probably to stem his regret at having taken Rowan on, useless in every way except when it came to helping Arthur dissolve his lies. Arthur likely wouldn't have even bothered about the bottles had Merlin not made it so plain that there was something significant about them he was trying to keep out of scrutiny. 

"Don't worry about it; it's fine, really," he said lightly, like their conversation hadn't just been veering out of his control and Arthur could be put off the scent so easily. 

"Merlin."

"Really."

" _Merlin_."

"Just _leave it_ , Arthur," Merlin said, stalking across the clearing and clearly piqued at having nowhere to hide, though even if he had, it wouldn't have lasted for long, as Arthur had always been very skilled at detecting lumps behind tapestries.

"There," Arthur said, following right behind him, frustration bubbling in his gut and threatening to spill everywhere. "That's what's different. You used to trust me. You used to talk to me. Even when I had no inkling about your sorcery, we had a better friendship than this; I can barely get two sentences out of you now without coming up against a wall. Every time I think I'm getting somewhere, every time you bloody _insult_ me, I think, 'Oh, good, there's Merlin again,' and then you go and smile some vacant smile and call me _sire_ , and it's like we've never met before."

Merlin said nothing, only stared at him, and Arthur wondered if he'd have to repeat the whole thing. 

"Look," Arthur said quietly. "Is it something I've done? Have I _offended_ you in some way?"

"Arthur, no."

"Then for god's sake, Merlin, what is it?" he asked, shouting like Merlin was at the other end of his father's council table. He could see why Uther had liked doing this; it was rather cathartic. He shouted some more. "Just bloody tell me what's wrong, and I will fix it." 

Merlin opened his mouth, exhaling loudly through it as though pained. He shut his eyes. "I'm in love, Arthur," he said evenly, though a bitter aftertaste tinged the air. "With someone I can't ever have. That's what's wrong."

In his many years of physical training, Arthur had learned the most efficient ways to block blows and parry punches, but he'd never had the distinguished experience of deflecting words that hit so hard it hurt, and what they dislodged from his throat was surprising, even to him. "It's not that lady from the lake, is it?"

That earned him more staring, which was all well and good, as it gave him time to shore up the indifference he'd surely have to display while Merlin talked about being in love with someone else; served him right for prying. His concentration on assembling his features into perfect nonchalance was broken, however, when Merlin barked out a loud, incredulous laugh. 

"No," he said, shaking his head like it was ridiculous for the thought to have even occurred to Arthur and worse still for him to have voiced it. "No, that was a lifetime ago, and it never was -- Well, anyway, it's -- mm, never mind."

"Anyway it's what?" Arthur ground out, feeling up for a little bout of self-torture. He'd got himself this far, might as well see it all the way through. 

"Anyway," said Merlin, smiling sadly. "Anyway, it's you I've been in love with for years." He laughed again, soundlessly this time, at his shoes, as though he couldn't quite believe he'd found the gall to say such a thing out loud. He pulled at a supple branch, setting it to spring up and down. "Sorry. I really shouldn't have said anything. But you did ask."

Arthur nodded slowly, reeling. "I did."

Merlin turned back towards the fire, and added quietly, over his shoulder, "Don't worry, though, that's what the potion's for. Helps me forget."

Arthur said nothing.

"Reckon I should get another fish? That one's probably gone off a bit by now. Also, you dropped it on the ground."

The sudden about-turn of Merlin's tone, a didactic cheerfulness apropos of some other conversation that didn't exist, snapped Arthur out of his mental freefall, and he came over to stand next to Merlin. The ground beneath his feet felt a lot more solid now; boiled down, what he was dealing with wasn't Merlin being inexplicably distant or untrusting, it was that Merlin was simply being an idiot of the highest order, and _that_ was something Arthur had no trouble with. He had what felt like eons of experience taking Merlin to task for being an idiot; he could fill volumes with it. Everything was going to be all right. Everything was going to be _fantastic_.

"You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble, you know, if you'd just come to me with this years ago."

Merlin's face twitched, but he busied himself with poking at the fire. 

"What would I have done then, you wonder," Arthur went on, feeling obnoxiously happy and also just plain obnoxious. "For starters, I probably could have avoided having all those grubby courtiers falling on top of me. It's not very comfortable breaking other people's falls all the time. Hurt my wrist once, you remember? When Lady Cecily took me down with her?"

"Mm," said Merlin, his face now a mixture of confusion, resignation and relief. The fire received a very enthused stoking. 

"Probably still would've had to marry Gwen," Arthur conceded airily, "to shut all the advisors up. But she would've understood. She knows, you know, that I've had my heart set on you long before I was even king." 

Merlin froze, a dry branch halfway to the flames. His gaze slowly arced round, disbelief etched all across his features. "Say again?"

Arthur eyed him with mild suspicion. "You had better stop drinking that stuff if you expect to carry on any sort of meaningful conversation with me, Merlin. Whether you prefer the right or left side of the bed, for example. I'm not fussed either way, so long as you don't steal all the blankets."

Merlin matched his look, but his eyes shone. "You're just being a prat now."

"So I am. I suppose you expect me to make it up to you," said Arthur with a wide smile, and pulled Merlin to him. 

He had dreamed, once or twice, or maybe one or two hundred times, of kissing Merlin like this, of that sweet effervescence simmering underneath his skin from having Merlin's arms wrapped around him, and it came as something of a surprise that his imagination, which normally served him so well, had been complete rubbish when it came to this. The heat of Merlin's lips searing his, the way his fingers dug into his skin, the warmth and affection that enveloped him -- it was more than he'd ever dared to hope for, and now it was all his. And he hadn't even had to end a chicken for it.

Arthur laughed into the curve of Merlin's smile, and let delirious happiness in.


End file.
